


These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal

by footsieinthegarden



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Sick Enjolras, Sickfic, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/footsieinthegarden/pseuds/footsieinthegarden
Summary: Enjolras contracts strep throat while captive, and Grantaire nurses him as much as circumstances allow. Pretty much Torture Porn Without Plot.A oneshot expanding on an incident mentioned in passing in You Still Have All of Me.





	These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps my one regret about You Still Have All of Me is how much I limited the amount of straight-up suffering/torture I wrote. Which I corrected by letting myself write...4K words of straight-up suffering/torture.
> 
> This will probably be more enjoyable if you've read at least some of You Still Have All of Me, but I think it can also function as a standalone, especially if you just want that suffering goodness.

“I’m supposed to be the one with the sleeping problem, Apollo.” Grantaire couldn’t read Enjolras’s exact expression in the gloom, but just the way he wasn’t rebuked for calling the other man Apollo told him everything he needed to know. Enjolras’s hand didn’t feel particularly warm or clammy in his, and neither had his forehead. (It had been quite a wait for Enjolras to fall deep enough asleep for Grantaire to check, but it had been worth it.)

“I’m fine, Grantaire,” Enjolras finally said, slowly, reluctantly, as he gave Grantaire’s hand a rather weak squeeze that was meant to trick him into acquiescing. 

“Let me at least look at your back. In the light.” Grantaire had been uselessly trying to clean himself before they had been thrown down to the crawlspace last night (useless because he knew he would never be clean again, could never be such a thing, but he couldn’t endure the humiliation of leaking all over their shared quilt and then having to listen to Enjolras ask for permission to wash it) and had arrived on the scene too late to do anything. Enjolras had been more reticent to elaborate than usual, though it seemed to be from exhaustion rather than any real desire to impede Grantaire’s efforts, so he still wasn’t sure what had happened. There had been just enough moonlight seeping in through their tiny window for him to see Enjolras’s skin was unbroken (well, unbroken everywhere he had expected it to be unbroken,) but he imagined bruises had bloomed overnight. They slept on their sides, but he knew that was still enough pressure to be excruciating, even if Enjolras pretended otherwise.

Enjolras shook his head. “Not worth it.” It did sting that the other man had deemed Grantaire’s healing efforts as such, it couldn’t not sting with his emotions always so raw and near the surface, but he couldn’t let himself dwell on the rejection, since it hadn’t been delivered as a complete sentence. Something much worse than a bruised back was wrong with Enjolras. He was more concerned that whatever that was came without a fever. His skills were decidedly limited, both by his own knowledge and Master’s…everything, but fevers he could do. A few pills were easy to steal, more were not necessarily difficult to acquire (paying whatever price Master demanded of him was of no consequence, once he had surmounted the obstacle of convincing him Enjolras would suffer more by working harder later as opposed to working more slowly while uncomfortably ill,) and he could usually wear Enjolras down into drinking more water throughout the day (even if sometimes he wanted to hit his head against a brick wall instead of once again explaining to the other man that equality was fine in theory but if Enjolras could easily steal something that would make him feel significantly better, even if it couldn’t be shared, he should.) This malaise would be more difficult to treat, but, as horrible as the thought was, it would give shape to his day, instead of just drifting through in a haze as Master used him yet again.

Enjolras had closed his eyes, though he was still awake, and he was motionless for a worryingly long time after Master opened up their crawlspace. Grantaire fetched the two granola bars that had been thrown down, and he breathed a sigh of relief that Master had already gone. (Two granola bars meant he was not already in an exceptionally bad mood, and the careless departure meant he was not already in an exceptionally cruel one. Food and time could be critical gifts when it came to getting Enjolras through the day. They had made the short list of things he would not doubt.) He broke the bars into pieces between his fingers prior to delivery. (That trick couldn’t be overused, so he saved it for Extreme Emergencies.) His stomach hurt, as it always did, when Enjolras glared at him when he finished and realized he had been tricked into eating a double share of food, but it was worth it. He already hated himself enough for not having any food stockpiled at the moment.

“I’m fine, Grantaire,” Enjolras said by way of chastisement, but it was hard (harder than normal) to take the statement seriously when the other man put his head in hands upon sitting up. “Don’t,” he warned, voice a little stronger, before Grantaire could even open his mouth. (That was one problem with having very little he could do for a suffering Enjolras – it was far too simple to guess his suggestions before they were made.)

“You don’t look fine, Apollo,” Grantaire ventured once more.

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras grumbled as he dragged himself over to the shaft of light, though he sounded more exhausted than irritated. The food had helped, but not enough. Grantaire scrambled after him and scooted by, hauling himself out first so he could lend the other man a hand, after a quick check that Master was not nearby. (Getting caught doing this when Enjolras didn’t strictly need it usually resulted in Enjolras being painfully bound for an extended period of time, and Grantaire had only fucked it up twice. But it was still too awful to think about either time. He could take no comfort in tending to Enjolras when the other man’s hurts were his fault alone.) Grantaire did use the time to study Enjolras’s face (because lingering here was also generally a bad idea.) He didn’t look any worse than Grantaire would’ve expected from a bedtime beating and a sleepless night, but they both looked so bad all the time (though Enjolras still inexplicably looked good, somehow) that it was hard to tell. 

“I’ll ice your back later,” Grantaire said quietly as he trailed Enjolras out to the kitchen. (This was another trick he tried to use as little as possible. Enjolras hated not being able to respond when he disagreed.) 

Master was drinking his coffee on the couch, still in pajamas, covered by a silk robe. Grantaire tried not to calculate what that did to the probability of having to give him a blowjob (slow and gentle, while Master finished his coffee and ate his breakfast) (while Enjolras was right there in the kitchen, please not that not today,) but when he went to kneel obediently at Master’s feet, all Master did was start idly running a hand through his hair. His stomach hurt (just hunger pangs, he told himself, it had nothing to do with knowing Enjolras would find him like this,) but he had enough practice at submitting like this that he could still focus on the problem at hand. He listened carefully to Enjolras making breakfast in the kitchen, and he couldn’t possibly really be able to hear that the other man sounded a little slower than usual, but he would’ve sworn on his life that he could. (Not on Enjolras’s life though, since it was probably just a trick of his exhausted mind and subtle clues in Master’s body language.) 

“A little slow this morning, boy,” Master commented when Enjolras finally brought his plate over. He tightened his grip in Grantaire’s hair, but only maneuvered it to rest against his thigh. Master must have expected Enjolras to be a little slow, though, after the beating, if this was the only punishment meted out. 

“I’m sorry, Master,” Enjolras apologized softly. Grantaire tried to think about how Enjolras still sounded tired, instead of the carefully blank tone he tried his best to cultivate. It was better than thinking about how Master was getting half-hard inches from his face. Whatever was wrong with Enjolras, he needed rest, but if Master found Enjolras any step on the sickness scale above “on death’s door,” it would not go well for either of them. Grantaire had to approach it a different way. 

He resisted as little as possible as Master stood up and manhandled him down the hallway by his hair to his office. He still hadn’t bothered to change. Grantaire fell to his knees when he was released, but he stayed in place rather crawling under the desk. He used to hate how much he trembled, but now he knew how much Master liked it. If his dignity had to be so thoroughly trampled, it helped that it at least served a purpose. “Please, Master,” he started, voice shaking as much as his body, but he was cut off when he was back-handed across the face. He hated when Master did that. The pain he could tolerate, but the force made his head ring and he usually lost his train of thought and if Enjolras hadn’t heard the blow, the evidence would be clearly visible soon. 

“Please,” he started again, but he stopped and flinched, but the only blow that came was the sound of Master’s laughter, enjoying how easily Grantaire was cowed. Grantaire could live with that, if it could be traded for something worthwhile. “Please, Enjolras is hurt.” This time he fully expected the blow, though it was a bit surprising when Master delivered it to the same exact spot. 

“Breaking the rules already, slut?” Master said, almost gloating. Grantaire hadn’t known exactly what to do until now. Referring to Enjolras by name was always a calculated risk, but when it paid off, it really paid off.

Grantaire shuffled forward on his knees until he was between Master’s legs. “No, please, I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I know there’s a price for everything. But please – let me do something for him.”

“I know just how much you would like to do for him, slut,” Master laughed, before pressing Grantaire’s head into his crotch. Grantaire crossed his arms behind his back (Master must know he added that flourish on purpose but found it too arousing to care) and exposed Master using only his mouth. He did his best to focus on pleasuring him while also thinking about it as little as possible. (It got a little easier every time.) At least with the robe in the way, Master couldn’t touch his hair. He remained exactly where he was when he was done, bowing his head as low he could. He felt a little dizzy. “You know I could still say no if I wanted,” Master warned.

“Yes, Master,” Grantaire whispered, trying to sink further down on his knees. 

“Fine. Twenty minutes. I’ll be counting.” 

“Thank you, Master,” he breathed, keeping his head determinedly bowed until he left the room. He flushed because he just knew Master was staring at his ass, and it made his cheek throb even more.

It was easier to forget though, when he found Enjolras in the kitchen. The dishes were only half-done, but the other man was bent over so his forehead could rest on the cool countertop. He only kept his rising panic down because holding that position required some strength on Enjolras’s part. “Enjolras?” he asked quietly, even more afraid to touch than usual, when he didn’t know what was hurting. “Enjolras? What’s wrong?”

“My throat,” Enjolras finally admitted, slumping over a little further. Grantaire ever so gently pushed Enjolras’s hair away to feel his temple. It still felt cool to the touch. “I don’t think I’ve had a fever at all.” Enjolras’s words were still slow, because of course they were, because of course it must hurt terribly to talk, and of course Grantaire had been too stupid to guess. 

“Come here.” He managed to get Enjolras to the bathroom without too much fuss and set him on the edge of the bathtub. He poured out a half-dose of NyQuil (hardly the perfect drug for the job, but Enjolras would no doubt be most comfortable asleep) and coaxed the other man to drink it. Enjolras coughed and made a face but kept it down. Grantaire had no idea how much time had elapsed, but he didn’t care, focusing instead on searching the cottage for a flashlight. He would have to beg soon enough anyway. Enjolras was huddled right where Grantaire had left him. Grantaire very carefully tilted his chin. “Say ah,” he commanded and aimed the light into Enjolras’s mouth. He had been worried he wouldn’t be able to recognize a problem, but the other man’s throat was an awful garish red. Grantaire could’ve diagnosed the problem from outer space. He clicked the flashlight off and set it on the counter. “I think you have strep.”

Enjolras looked at the ground, listless, and then up to him. Grantaire felt his heart give an extra thump because he was extra stupid. “There’s nothing you can do without antibiotics.”

“Did you switch places with me without telling?” Grantaire asked, trying to smile, but Enjolras’s head just drooped back down. Grantaire bit the inside of his cheek until it bled. He wanted to pick Enjolras up and carry him to a hospital and be allowed to nurse him until he was better, all better, so badly that it hurt. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, even though he could promise no such thing, as he lifted Enjolras down to the floor and helped him lean against the wall. He could feel Enjolras’s bones and could only hope the half-dose of NyQuil hadn’t been enough to hurt him.

“Back so soon?” Master asked when Grantaire returned. Grantaire made himself kneel at his feet again. There was no other way to ask for something, and Grantaire would kneel there forever (well, until he collapsed) if that’s what it took. He flinched when Master’s hand went to his cheek, the ghosting of his thumb over the bruise there more than enough to hurt. “Do you not appreciate the time I gave you, slut?” he asked, pressing his thumb in, as a warning. It must seem very suspicious, Grantaire supposed, trying to think around the pain.

“He’s sick, Master,” he whispered to the floor.

“Sick? Fifteen minutes ago he was hurt.” Master sounded so smug that it hurt more than the bruise. Grantaire couldn’t even imagine how pretending Enjolras was hurt when he was sick could’ve actually helped, but that option was lost to him now for future use.

“Both, Master,” Grantaire clarified. He would be good and submissive, he would be good and submissive, he would be good and submissive. He swallowed hard. He felt dizzy from skipping breakfast, his face ached, his heart was racing. Neither of them had even been really sick like this before – what would Master do? Would he let Enjolras die if it came to that? Grantaire could taste bile in the back of his throat. “I think he has strep throat.” Master made a disgusted sound. He probably didn’t want to catch it too. Grantaire didn’t let himself think about how Master would be able to go get actual medicine and how he would no doubt be required to tend to him, because then he really would throw up. “Please, let me take care of him.” He should hate the way he was on the verge of tears, but it would probably help.

He dared to glance up. Master was idly picking at a cuticle. “Put him in the spare room. Then I want everything he touched disinfected.” Grantaire rose, heart still racing. “I need some time to think this over.”

“Thank you, Master,” Grantaire said, and then he went to be sick in the other bathroom. Whatever he had to do would be worth it, but it was hard to remember as that crawling unclean sensation crept over him again. 

He didn’t have permission, but he dared to take quite a few blankets from the linen closet and arranged them near the heating vent in the spare room. He stared at it for a stupidly long time, wondering why the room felt so cold, before finally realizing it was closed. He pushed the lever over and could only hope the room warmed quickly. He was relieved to find Enjolras right where he left him, practically asleep. The other man eyes opened but fluttered closed when he saw it was Grantaire. He stumbled along the hall under Grantaire’s guidance and pliantly let himself be bundled up. Grantaire was very careful to make sure Enjolras’s hands and feet and head were tucked in, while leaving enough slack that the blankets wouldn’t slip off if he thrashed around. It was a total fucking waste of a blanket, but he used the final one to pillow Enjolras’s head. Despite everything else they had both endured, it seemed unbearable that Enjolras would have to rest his head on the hard floor. 

It took longer than he wanted to find the can of disinfectant, but he dutifully carried out that next task. It was less rewarding than making Enjolras warm and cozy, and it would no doubt be easier (for a time) if Master fell sick as well, but it was imperative he stayed healthy himself. It was probably a fruitless exercise – he held Enjolras’s hand every night while lying inches from his face, after all, if he was going to get it, it was too late. There was no point. But he could pretend. He wiped down every conceivable surface the other man could have touched, and then detoured to put their quilt in the wash, even though that wasn’t really Master had ordered. 

“I’m finished, Master,” he said quietly, hovering at the door to the office. He should go kneel, again, but he let himself pretend he might just be summarily dismissed to go watch Enjolras sleep. 

Master clicked his tongue at him like he was an animal and patted his lap. Grantaire wanted to do that thing, that very nice thing, where he pretended this was all happening to someone else, that his consciousness was just drifting around nearby, but he couldn’t negotiate the best for Enjolras like that, so it was very much him that crossed the room and sat on Master’s lap. It was a good thing he had already thrown up. He tensed and tried to shrink away when Master reached for his head, expecting his hair to be grabbed yet again, but instead Master went back to prodding his bruise. He didn’t try to hold back his whimpers, just wanting it to end as soon as possible, and while Grantaire could feel Master starting to push against his leg, Master didn’t stop. Master gave a particularly vicious pinch, and Grantaire couldn’t contain his cry of pain. “What did our precious Enjolras say about this?” 

Grantaire tried to chew on his cheek, but Master felt it and snorted, and Grantaire stopped in shame. He stared down at the scars on his arms and wished maybe it had worked after all. “He didn’t notice, Master.” It was because Enjolras was sick and exhausted and worn down and then effectively drugged, he knew that, he knew ordinarily Enjolras would’ve noticed (though whether he would’ve tried to talk about it was up for debate,) he knew Master was plunging him into his darkest thoughts on purpose, but it still made him want to fall the floor and never get up again. 

“You would’ve noticed, if it had been the other way around,” Master goaded. He had dropped his hand from Grantaire’s face, but those words hurt far worse than the bruise. Grantaire couldn’t even bring himself to reply – they both knew what the answer was. He still couldn’t stop a few tears from falling, and he knew from the way Master shoved him to the floor and laughed that he had been waiting for exactly that reaction. “Would you like to know what I’ve decided?” 

“Please, Master,” he said automatically. But unless it was that he was completely relieved from his duties until Enjolras was better, he really didn’t.

“No medicine. If he’s just going to lay around all day, I don’t particularly care how much he hurts.” This was hardly a surprise. Grantaire would just have to do his best with hot tea and maybe some ice cubes to chew on. Master couldn’t resist touching his hair again, and Grantaire tried to brace himself for whatever was coming next. “I was considering having you go without food in order to keep him fed, but I’ve decided that would be unnecessarily harsh. You may feed him once a day, but you will be eating from my hand for the duration. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Master,” he choked out. It wasn’t like he’d never had Master’s fingers in his mouth before, but being fed exclusively like that…what would Enjolras say if he found out? (If he could somehow miss the bruise on Grantaire’s face, he would certainly never find out about this. No matter what. Unless Master forced Grantaire to tell.) 

“I think we’re still missing something, aren’t we, though?” Grantaire’s head hurt. He didn’t want to play guessing games, not now. There was never a right answer. 

“I don’t know, Master,” he mumbled, when he was cuffed about the head again. It didn’t even hurt, which meant the reveal was going to be something horrible.

“Do you think there is no cost to having Enjolras curled up nice and safe in his room?” Grantaire shook his head, too terrified to even give one of his automatic responses. “Every day he’s recovering, I expect you to detail for me one of your fantasies about him. Thoroughly.” Grantaire gagged loudly, face burning, as he put all his energy into not dry-heaving. When the feeling passed, he couldn’t bring himself to move from where he had doubled over.

“I – I can’t-” he started, stupidly, foolishly.

“Of course you can. You come ever so prettily when I let you think about him. I’m sure you have plenty of ideas in that head of yours. We’ll start with your favorites, just in case someone makes a miraculous recovery.” Master laughed as Grantaire finally burst into tears. “Come suck me off, and you can go see him. I know that’s all you really want.” Grantaire obeyed, his face covered in a revolting mixture of tears and come and sweat when he had finished. 

It was all he could do to wash himself clean in the kitchen sink while he waited for water to heat in the microwave. He idly wondered how hard it would be to let it fill and then drown himself in it, and he was only drawn from those thoughts by the insistent beeping of the microwave. Every single step felt like such an effort. There was no tea anywhere, but there was honey, so he mixed a generous amount straight into the hot water. He carefully carried the mug to the spare room, quietly shutting the door behind him and just letting himself watch Enjolras. The other man was so pale and drawn and all Grantaire could offer were a few blankets and some fucking water. He wondered if there was anything sharp still around in the house.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asked sleepily, the lower half of his face emerging from where Grantaire had covered it. Grantaire knelt and offered him the mug, unable to bring himself to say anything or even really look Enjolras in the face. He would no doubt see just how thoroughly disgusting Grantaire was, if he hadn’t realized before. “Thank you,” Enjolras whispered when he finished, setting the mug on the floor. Grantaire wanted to take his hands and caress the palms until he was soothed back to sleep. He picked the mug up so he wouldn’t be tempted to taint the other man like that. “Grantaire, what did you have to do for all this?” Enjolras pressed. Grantaire stood up so quickly he felt dizzy and fled. 

The mug shattered easily, so easily, so very easily why hadn’t he thought to do this before, when he dropped it on the kitchen floor. He had just selected a particularly large, sharp shard when Master grabbed him around the waist from behind. He had no energy to struggle as he was dragged away to the bedroom.


End file.
